


The Valentine’s Day Mix-up or a Late Winter’s Afternoon Dream by R. C. Mills

by amycarey



Series: The Children's Bookshop AU [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Original Work
Genre: F/F, Love Potion/Spell, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amycarey/pseuds/amycarey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was calm until Bianca fell in love with the evil queen on Valentine's Day. </p><p>A short story from the 'Marisol Mendez' series, written by Regina Mills in 'Down the Rabbit Hole', and set after book five (aka the book where Gin and Sal kiss).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Valentine’s Day Mix-up or a Late Winter’s Afternoon Dream by R. C. Mills

**Author's Note:**

> For all the wonderful, beautiful people who supported ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’. You are GREAT. Happy Valentine’s Day.

_Written for an anthology of stories by your favourite young adult writers being sold to raise money for heart disease research. Coming to you, Valentine’s Day, 2015!_

_Dedicated to Emma and Henry, my two Valentines._

Marisol woke in her own bed, in her own room for the first time in weeks, and couldn’t help the feeling of absolute contentment spreading through her body. She was home. She was with Mom. Gin was with Mom. And they’d be together on Valentine’s Day because they were so hopelessly, sappily gone on each other even though Mom tried to pretend like she wasn’t.

 

She screwed up her nose at that final thought because she was pretty sure Gin hadn’t gone home. Marisol had stayed awake late – drinking in the pure, exquisite joy of finally being back in her own real space, on her own inner-sprung mattress and her own quilt made for her by Mom when she was two and finally shifted into a proper bed – and she hadn’t heard Gin’s truck putter off at any point (and it wasn’t exactly quiet). Which, like, _ew_.

 

Still, she smiled.

 

And then the rapping at the door began. She groaned, dragging herself out from under the covers and clomping down the stairs, pulling on a sweater as she went. “Mom, Ma,” she yelled as she went past Mom’s bedroom. “Door!” She heard Mom grumble (she  _so_  wasn’t a morning person) and then actually, literally giggle. “You’re both disgusting,” she yelled, grimacing at the idea that Gin could make Mom laugh like that, like she was a fifteen-year-old girl with her first crush.

 

At the front door she found Bianca, holding something wrapped in pink paper with glittery hearts on it. She wondered at the exquisite irony of Bianca getting Mom in the town-organised  _Amigo Secreto_  exchange.

 

(They’d had an exchange in her Spanish class at school last year and Mrs Rodriguez had called it that and she’d been given homemade chocolate and a card from Ziggy Castellano, which had made her giddy for days. When she’d told Mom about it in one of their talks about New York she’d told Marisol about a similar tradition of secret gift giving in her homeland to celebrate friendship. She’d laughed over getting some pompous visiting dignitary at her uncle’s court in the exchange when she was eleven and making him think that the gifts were from a pretty lady-in-waiting.

 

It was one of the only stories Marisol had heard about Mom’s childhood that didn’t end with Mom brooding or holding back tears.)

 

“Marisol?” Bianca said, surprise flushing her pale skin pink and blotchy. “Is your mother at home?”

 

“Which one?” Marisol asked and looked over at the staircase, which both Mom and Gin were descending. Mom’s hair sprung up in unruly curls, not all that dissimilar to Marisol’s own hair though her hair was a shade or two lighter, and Gin was fiddling with the tie of one of Mom’s dressing gowns. Marisol suspected this was to hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing any pants.

 

(Ma had only slept in a shirt and underwear during their year in New York City, which had been deeply embarrassing when Marisol had had sleepovers.)

 

Bianca’s blush deepened when she saw the pair of them and her jaw tightened, rosebud lips knitting into a thin line and eyes darkening from blue to black. “What are  _you_  doing here?” she asked.

 

Gin sighed. “Bianca, we talked about this. I love Sal.” She wrapped an arm around Mom’s shoulder protectively.

 

“No you don’t,” Bianca said. “I do.”

 

Mom started laughing and Marisol grinned. “Very amusing, dear,” Mom said.

 

“No, Salbatora,” Bianca said and she thrust the gift at her. “I love you. I always have. I always will.”

 

“Virginia, please call your father,” Mom said. There was something in the intensity of Bianca’s voice that scared Marisol, so fervent, so over-zealous.

 

“Salbatora, take the gift,” Bianca said, voice rising in pitch as she continued to push the box onto Mom. She took it and Marisol felt a pang of horror because what if this was all some horrible plot on Bianca’s behalf, a way of getting rid of the evil queen once and for all?

 

“Yeah,” Gin said into her cell phone, wandering back to the front door. “She’s acting really strangely, Edward. Could you come and get her?”

 

“Open it,” Bianca urged and Mom’s fingernails peeled away the tape, careful not to ruin the beautiful – if garish – wrapping paper. Marisol held her breath. Bianca bounced on the balls of her feet, a blush still staining her pale skin. Gin, phone to her ear, had her free hand resting where her holster would normally sit.

 

“Well,” Mom said, staring down at the package.

_*_

It was a book.

 

Mom, Gin and Marisol sat in the living room together, staring at it as Bianca hovered behind them. “Do you like it?” she asked, the squeak back in her voice. “I know you like poetry and Hassan told me that Pablo Neruda was really romantic and, oh God, I’ve got it wrong, haven’t I?” Marisol thought she might cry, which was going to be uncomfortable for everyone involved.

 

“It’s lovely, dear,” Mom said. “Really.”

 

“Bianca, maybe you might sit down,” Gin said gently and she held out a hand, touching her mother’s arm.

 

Bianca shrugged away her touch. “Don’t,” she snapped. “You’re my competition.”

 

Marisol snorted and Mom glared at her. “Gin, why don’t you make us coffee? Marisol, perhaps you could help her.”

 

Bianca smirked at her daughter as she passed her by and whispered, “she’s known me longer. You’ll never win.”

 

In the kitchen, Marisol grabbed a fresh bag of coffee and handed it to Gin, who had mastered the Keurig all too quickly for someone who typically drank instant. She boiled water for herself, making apple and ginger tea because Mom wouldn’t let her drink coffee, one of the singular cruelties in Marisol’s life at the moment. “What’s the deal with Bianca?” she asked and Gin shrugged.

 

“Seems like a curse,” she said and snickered. “Pablo Neruda though.”

 

“What’s important about him?”

 

“He’s pretty romantic, kid,” she said, rooting around in the pantry for sugar and Marisol pulled a face. It was gross enough that her moms were being all soppy and romantic. Her grandmother-who-was-also-formerly-Mom’s-step-daughter hitting on her mom with sappy poetry was beyond horrifying.

 

They returned to the living room to find Bianca standing in front of Mom, reciting poetry.

“… _and the measure of my changing love for you_

 _is that I do not see you but love you blindly_.”

 

“Oh, look, coffee!” Mom said, her face speaking so much of relief that Marisol felt guilty.

 

Bianca pouted. “I wasn’t finished.”

 

“Yeah, you were,” Gin said and the look on her face had turned thunderous.

 

Edward knocked at the door and then immediately burst in. “Bianca!” he exclaimed, because Bianca was still holding the book of poetry. “What are you doing?”

 

“Charming, this isn’t the time,” Bianca said. Then, she apparently reconsidered, turning to him. “Actually, I think we need to talk. About divorce…”

 

“What?” Edward looked at Gin and then Mom in turn, eyebrows knotting together and his beautiful face lined in confusion.

 

“I’m sorry, darling,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right to remain married when I’m in love with someone else.”

 

Edward turned to Mom. “This is your doing,” he said, his voice dripping with rage. His fists clenched and Marisol stepped forward, stepped in front of Mom.

 

“Think it through, _Charming_ ,” Mom said, a hand on Marisol, thumb rubbing the skin of her shoulder. “Why on earth would I want your wife fawning all over me?”

 

Slowly, the rage dissipated and Edward nodded. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Bianca, let’s go home and talk about this.”

 

“No,” Bianca said, scowling.

 

Mom touched her arm. “Bianca, go with your husband,” she said. “I’ll see you later.” And so Bianca went, casting one last, longing look over her shoulder at Mom.

 

“You’ll see her later?” Gin asked, and there was real hurt in her voice.

 

“Not now, Virginia,” Mom said. “We have work to do.”

 

*

 

Marisol was bored. Mom was reading through this pile of ancient tomes, Gin beside her and attempting to help even though nothing was in a language she understood. They’d been bickering in the way that they used to, but now it had this charge to it that Marisol thought might be their way of flirting.

 

Honestly, she figured she was surplus to requirements. “I’m going to take a walk to the diner,” she said.

 

Mom walked her out to the front door. “ _Te quiero, mija_ ,” she said. “You know that, yes?”

 

“Duh,” Marisol said and Mom laughed, a sound that warmed Marisol’s whole body. “I love you too, right?” she said, scuffing the toe of her boot against the door frame.

 

“Button your coat,” Mom said in response, and wrapped her own scarlet scarf around Marisol’s neck. It was cold out and Marisol walked briskly, focusing entirely on the frozen pavement before her until she reached the diner. They were busy, but Red sat her down in a booth with only one other person and promised to bring her hot chocolate.

 

“With chilli,” Marisol said. It was never as good as when Mom made it, a post-nightmare treat to make the bad dreams disappear, but Red did a decent job at getting the ratios right. She watched Red at the counter, movements quick and efficient, though she faltered whenever she caught sight of Hassan sitting at a table with Cressida. Hassan was the most beautiful man Marisol had ever seen and when she’d been a babyish nine year old she’d imagined herself in love with him.

 

She was older now, not nearly so silly.

 

“Ah, love,” the man in the booth across from her said. “The course of true love never did run smooth, alas.”

 

“Why’re you quoting Shakespeare?” Marisol asked. She’d studied ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ at her New York school. They’d acted out scenes in class and she’d been Helena because she was the tallest girl in the seventh grade and also because she’d refused to be Hermia because Lysander kept making really racist slurs at her.

 

The man chuckled. He had a high-pitched, melodic laugh and his ears pointed at the tips. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

 

“It’s, like, in the curriculum,” Marisol said, raising an eyebrow in a facsimile of one of Mom’s preferred expressions of judgement.

 

He laughed again. “I’m just pitying our little friend at the counter. Perhaps I should help her out?” He pulled a little bottle shaped like a flower from his pocket and the purple liquid inside it sloshed about.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Oh, love in idleness,” the man said, disappearing the bottle back into the pocket of his coat and standing.

 

“Hey!” Marisol said but he was too swift for her and he was out the door in a swish of woollen coat before she could make him stay.

 

Red came over with her cocoa. “What’s up, Mendez?” she asked, sliding into the seat vacated by the man.

 

“Do you know that man?” she asked and took a long drink of cocoa, the chocolate scalding hot but comforting in spite of the damage to her tongue.

 

“Yeah,” Red said. “That’s Robin Goodfellow. Kind of an oddball. Janitor up at the convent. Nice enough though.”

 

Marisol sighed. “I know what’s wrong with Bianca,” she said and she stood, pulling on her coat and scarf, and walked out, ignoring Red’s questions.

 

*

 

She found him down at the docks, sitting on a bench. It was almost as though he’d been expecting her because he didn’t even look up when she approached. “Ah,” he said. “Miss Mendez, my sea and sun.”

 

“It doesn’t actually mean that,” she said.

 

“It was a play on words,” Puck said and he really looked offended that Marisol had questioned him, but it didn’t. _Mar y sol_ sounded nice but it was _wrong_ and Mom was very insistent that people have the name they chose.

 

Unless it was Gin. Because Mom still insisted on calling her Virginia at least 50 percent of the time. She wondered if she should keep a tally.  

 

“I want you to fix this,” she said. “It’s making my mothers upset.”

 

“This situation with your grandmother being in love with your adoptive mother?” Puck asked and Marisol scowled because she was so tired of Mom being called her adoptive mother – like she was somehow _less_ her mom because of it, like the fact that she’d chosen her and raised her and loved her meant nothing.

 

“My mom doesn’t deserve this,” she said. “Neither does Gin.”

 

Puck sighed. “I may be able to help. Another drop of the potion, this time ensuring her Prince Charming is the first person she encounters, rather than Madame Mayor calling her to question the school board’s request for three more interactive whiteboards. Your mother needs to learn to delegate, my dear.”

 

“And your price?” Marisol asked, ignoring the snide comment.

 

 “A little changeling girl,” Puck said and grinned at Marisol.

 

Marisol frowned. “We learned about changelings at school.” Marisol remembered that lesson; Mr Singh had talked about the fair folk taking human children and leaving their own in the child’s place – or even an enchanted piece of wood. The play had started with a fight over a changeling boy, both Oberon and Titania wanting him. “I’m not a changeling.”

 

“I’m having to improvise, child,” Puck said. “Are you in or out?”

 

Marisol thought about her moms. She thought about the faint pink glow on Gin’s cheeks when she looked over at Mom and how when Mom thought no one was watching, she stared at Gin like she was her entire world. They were so happy. She could sacrifice everything for that. “I’ll go with you,” Marisol said and she was pleased to notice that her voice didn’t shake. “ _Once_ you’ve reversed the spell.”

 

Puck nodded. “Consider it done. My masters are in need of a servant and you’ll do nicely.” He held out his hand. “Six months?”

 

Marisol shook. “Six months,” she said. She could do six months.

 

*

 

She watched as Puck placed a drop of the potion into the sleeping Bianca’s eye. Bianca had resisted the sleeping draught, but had accepted it when Marisol had told her Mom would be there when she woke. Edward stood watch over her. “I won’t leave her side,” he said. “I promise I will be the first thing she sees.”

 

Puck nodded and led Marisol from the apartment. “Come, child,” he said. “I’ve upheld my end of our bargain.”

 

Marisol’s shoulders shook with the effort it took to keep them back, keep her head up, keep her heart beating. “Okay,” she said. She’d stuck a letter in the mailbox. It explained everything. Puck held out his hand gesturing for her to keep moving, and Marisol took a step closer.

 

“Marisol Luisa Mendez!” Mom’s voice boomed from across the street, preternaturally loud. “Get over here _right now_.”

 

Her mouth felt dry, tongue scaly and rough against her palate. “Mami…” she said, barely a hoarse whisper. Mom crossed the road at a run, headless of oncoming traffic. She hit the front of Gepetto’s car with the palm of her hand when he screeched to a halt and honked his horn at her. Gin was hard on her heels, coat misbuttoned and no gloves. Marisol turned to Puck. “She wasn’t supposed to get the letter until I was gone.”

 

Mom’s jaw hardened. One hand reached out to touch Marisol’s shoulder and then drew back. “No,” she said and her dark eyes were sharp as broken glass. “I said goodbye to you once, _mija_ , and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I will die before I do it again.”

 

“I made a bargain,” Marisol said. “I know what I’m doing.”

 

“Kid,” Gin said, voice shaking and eyes welling with tears. “In any universe, a thirteen-year-old girl going off with a creepy old man is considered kidnapping, whether or not you had a ‘deal’.”

 

Puck looked at the tearful Gin and angry Mom and then at Marisol. “I mean, we just need someone to run a few errands for us at the convent,” he said. “I was going to suggest an hour after school every day for the terms of our agreement? What did you think was happening here?”

 

Gin had to physically hold Mom back as she leapt at Puck, hissing and cursing. Marisol laughed, whole heart lightened at Puck’s words. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours,” she said. “Gin, take Mom on a date.”

 

“A _what_?” Gin asked.

 

She rolled her eyes. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” she said. “Take Mom out for lunch. Buy her flowers. _Dios Mio_ –“ she rolled her eyes dramatically “–I have to do _everything_ around here.”

 

Mom’s hand cupped her face and she was smiling. “I could always set the convent on fire.”

 

“Well, I know where Marisol gets her melodrama from,” Gin said.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Marisol said, though she pulled Mom and Gin into a fierce hug.

 

“C’mon, your majesty,” Gin said, looping an arm through Mom’s. “I hear the diner does a pretty good burger.”

 

*

 

She ran most of the way home, slipping and sliding on icy pavements, and burst through the front door of the house. “I’m back!” she yelled, rushing into the living room.

 

Mom sat up suddenly from the couch, hair wild and the sleeve of her blouse loose off one shoulder and she could see far too much of her silky camisole before the back of the couch hid the rest of her. Gin eased herself up and Marisol grimaced because Gin definitely had lipstick stains around her mouth and on her neck in the exact shade Mom was wearing. “Ew,” Marisol said. “Please tell me you’re wearing pants.”

 

“It’s Valentine’s Day, kid,” Gin said. “Give us a break.”

 

Mom, in contrast, buttoned her blouse hastily and slid out from under Gin. “Cocoa, _mija_?” she asked, moving forward and ignoring Gin’s heavy sigh as she collapsed back onto the couch, disappearing from view. “We’re having a Valentine’s Day dinner tonight, the three of us.”

 

“I need a shower,” Marisol replied. She was halfway out of the room before she turned back. “I’m really happy you’re together, you know that, yeah?” she mumbled and ran upstairs.

 

When she’d managed to wash herself clean of dust (because the convent bookshelves hadn’t been dusted since time began and it was _everywhere_ ) and dressed in the outfit Mom had laid out for her, including a new red sweater covered in hearts, she returned to the living room. The hall smelled of spiced apple; Mom must’ve made her apple crumb cake and her stomach rumbled at the thought.

 

She stopped at the door to the lounge. Mom sat, with Gin leaning against her and coiling her fingers through her dark hair, and she was reading softly from the book Bianca had given her.

“ _Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,_

_te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:_

_así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera…”_

 

And Marisol smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> ‘I do not love you except because I love you’ and ‘Sonnet 17’ by Pablo Neruda.  
> 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' by Shakespeare.


End file.
